My husband is more sentimental than I am.

By a mile.

When we were dating, his nicknames were Mr. Kodak and Mr. Hallmark. Kodak, because he documented everything like we were starring in a Hallmark Christmas movie marathon.  Hallmark, because he gave cards the way we pass out candy on Halloween: by the handfuls. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Tuesdays. If cardstock was involved, he was emotionally prepared, and his wallet was wide open.

He remembers every holiday. Not just the major ones. All of them. The “that’s an actual holiday?” ones.

Which brings us to Valentine’s Day.

I understand it. I just don’t love being told by a calendar square when I am supposed to feel romantic. Why do we need a scheduled reminder to represent love? It feels scripted. Pre-packaged. Like we’re all actors in a commercial for roses that cost triple what they did 48 hours ago.

Love should show up unannounced. Random Tuesday in October. Coffee already made. Gas tank already filled. The last slice of pizza surrendered without commentary (which my husband does all of these – except the pizza – I always give him the last slice).

That’s romance.

Now, before anyone decides I’m emotionally bankrupt, let me clarify: I have feelings. I just don’t like being scheduled.

I want to say I love you when it hits me, not because I passed a greeting-card aisle that told me it was time to perform.

Maybe that resistance makes more sense when you know how I grew up.

In my house, we didn’t say “I love you.” Not because it wasn’t there, it just wasn’t narrated. There were no dramatic hugs in doorways (for the record, my family has made up for this by turning goodbyes into an Olympic sport). No pep talks. No inspirational refrigerator notes like we were auditioning for a family sitcom.

Love was assumed.

We were fed. Clothed. Warm. Safe. Money was never an obstacle. That was the love language. Stability. Provision. A warm bed and dinner on the table.

It wasn’t gushy. It was solid.

And once you’re raised on quiet, practical love, the theatrical version can feel… performative.

That said, I am not anti-Valentine’s Day. I just don’t respond well to emotional scheduling.

Our first child is named Valentino, not because of Valentine’s Day, but because it’s a family name. We wanted something meaningful to honor both sides as the first grandchild. It had roots. History. Weight.

And yet.

On his very first Valentine’s Day, we dressed him up like Cupid and left him on Grandma and Grandpa’s porch with balloons tied to his wrists and ankles, holding chocolate and flowers like a slightly confused emissary of romance.

Because while I question the system, I will absolutely commit to the bit.

For years, I received an Edible Arrangement because fruit is my weakness. Chocolate-dipped pineapple will soften even the most principled anti-Hallmark stance. I am nothing if not consistent.

Our usual Valentine’s Day plan? Sushi and a movie. Predictable. Reliable. Emotionally efficient. We eat raw fish, people-watch, sit in the dark, and let fictional characters do the dramatic part.

But this year we went to a retro arcade and pinball place.

For my husband, it was a return to childhood freedom: neon lights, quarters lined up on machines, independence.

For me? I was barely allowed to walk to the mailbox alone as a child, so “hanging out at the arcade” was not a chapter in my coming-of-age story. My rebellion was reading past bedtime with a flashlight and living dangerously with overdue library books.

Still, it was fun. Loud. Slightly chaotic. Less scripted than a prix fixe dinner with heart-shaped desserts (my husband knows better than to make me eat anything heart-shaped – although this year he bought stale heart-shaped doughnuts out of desperation as our refrigerator was devoid of any breakfast foods).

Here’s the truth.

I show love every day.

It’s in the grocery lists. The packed leftovers. The remembering of small preferences. The texts that say “drive safe.” The way I know exactly how everyone takes their coffee without asking.

Love, in my world, isn’t cinematic.

It’s operational.

But here’s the part that matters, and this is for Mr. Hallmark himself, who is very sensitive about not receiving a card:

I see you.

I see the effort. The photos. The cards. The memory for dates I pretend not to remember but absolutely benefit from. I know you feel loved when it’s written down and handed to you with a stamp.

So consider this your card.

Public. Permanent. Slightly sarcastic.

You have spent decades loving loudly. Photographing everything. Saving every ticket stub like we’re archiving our own museum exhibit.

And even if I resist the theatrics, I have never resisted you.

You love with sentiment.
I love with consistency.
Somehow, it works.

So yes, I may not always buy the card.

But I chose you.

And I keep choosing you.

Because to me, love isn’t a performance.

It’s a practice.

And it doesn’t need a calendar reminder to exist.